Vanished: The Complete Trilogy

The Complete Collection

Carter Quinn

Carter Quinn Books

Copyright © 2016 by Carter Quinn.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout ©2013 BookDesignTemplates.com

Cover design by Scott J. Latimer, SJL Graphics, LLC

Vanished: The Complete Collection / Carter Quinn. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9907732-7-6

ASIN

Print ISBN 978-0-9907732-6-9

Also by Carter Quinn

The Kansas Series

The Way Back

Fire & Rain

The Avery Series

Out of the Blackness

Into the Light

Short Stories

The Bridge

In the Crease (In the Crease #1)

I’m Every Goalie (In the Crease #0.5)

Coming Soon

Beyond Measure

Behind the Mask

Dedication

For my Dad.

Finally, one you could have read, Pops. I’m sorry I didn’t get it done in time. Love you.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank my beta readers, Aniko, Kristen, Lara, Whitney, and Marie Sexton. Your feedback was invaluable.

As always, a huge thank you to Marilyn for always cheering me on, even when I’m beyond a shadow of a doubt positive that the whole thing sucks rocks.

And to you, the reader, I offer my biggest thanks. Without you, I couldn’t do the one thing I’ve wanted to do since I was ten years old.

Author’s Note

Some of you may know I wrote this book so that I’d have something my Dad would feel comfortable reading. Don’t get me wrong. He was always supportive of me and my writing. I didn’t encourage him to read the previous two books because, frankly, the thought of my dad reading the things Riley got up to with those other guys kinda gave me the heebie-jeebies.

I failed.

Dad passed away July 30. I didn’t complete the ugly first draft until August 8. I’d like to think it doesn’t matter that he didn’t get to read it, but it does. But what also matters is that I know he loved the concept. At least I gave him that.

What I’m trying to say is, don’t take time for granted. We all have a finite amount of it. Live, laugh, and love while you can. Dad set a great example for those who loved him. He did all three of those things as hard as he could.

I love you, Pops. Rest easy.

CHAPTER

One

I forced my eyes open to confront another Monday and immediately regretted it. I couldn’t remember why I had allowed Tom to get me tanked on wine on a Sunday night, but I was sure this hangover was going to linger longer in my memory. Every cell of my body hurt, my stomach churned, and my brain pounded against its cage with fury.

I stifled a groan, rolled onto my side and reached for my husband, finding only cool, empty sheets. Behind closed lids, I rolled my eyes and then regretted that too. Even after all the wine we’d consumed the night before, he was already out for his morning run. I would never understand how, after an evening dedicated to drinking every last fermented grape in the house, he could possibly commit to all that bouncing around—and then actually do it without hurling into the bushes. But come six o’clock every weekday morning, rain or shine, hangover or no, he set off for his run. Not that I didn’t enjoy the benefits of his dedication. Just over twenty-one years after we’d first met, Tom was still the most desirable man I knew.

I crept out of bed and cast one last, yearning glance back at it. Instead of crawling back in and sleeping away my hangover like I ached to do, I straightened the covers enough to make the bed presentable. Making it properly required more energy than I could muster.

I stumbled into the adjoining bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror. God, Henry, you look as bad as you feel, I grumbled. After downing a glass of water and a few pills to battle my headache, I began my morning routine: shave, shower, and then breakfast for both of us.

Friday had been incredibly hectic at work and Monday, being Monday, promised to be the same or worse. It was always that way at the end of a fiscal quarter. My team invariably spent days explaining to the brass just how so many of their supposedly brilliant decisions had caused a financial loss to the company, Excellere Global. Somehow, even with all our explanations, dire warnings, and unheeded advice, that list of bad choices grew longer each time. This quarter’s loss was the seventh consecutive and one of the largest in the company’s 117-year history, second only to the one after the financial meltdown of 2008. It was my job to fling logical explanations and recovery recommendations at the blank wall of corporate honchos and hope one of them stuck. None would. They never did.

Tom still hadn’t returned by the time I’d finished eating, which wasn’t altogether unusual for him. His architecture firm in the North Panhandle district—NoPa, for short—was close enough to our Ashbury Heights neighborhood that he could start to work later than me. Some mornings when he was back in time and wanted to get an early start on the workday, we’d enjoy the five minute walk together to the corner of Frederick & Masonic. There I would give him a kiss goodbye before dashing over to Cole & Carl to catch the N line to the Financial District, while Tom continued his walk up to Grove Street.

Some mornings he met his best friend, Jamie, and they ran Buena Vista Park together. The one time I’d gone there with him, I had been so unnerved by the recycled headstones lining the paths as rain gutters that Tom had never asked me to go there again. Most mornings he ran alone in Golden Gate Park. Occasionally he would get caught up talking to the old woman who tended the flowerbeds in the Queen Wilhelmina Tulip Garden. He probably knew more about her and her family than I did about his.

Matthew and Althea MacKinnon still hated me and my presence in Tom's life. Although they were usually on their best behavior in their son’s presence, they were passive aggressive enough to show it whenever Tom stepped out of the room. It didn’t matter to them that I had loved their only child faithfully and to the best of my ability for twenty-one years. It didn’t matter that because of that love we had adopted CJ, providing them with their only grandson. It only mattered that I wasn’t the woman they had always envisioned their son marrying. I’d long ago given up trying to win them over.

To his credit, Tom wasn’t oblivious to his parents’ behavior. He’d spoken to them repeatedly over the years. They would do better for a short period before falling back into their old habits. I tolerated it because Tom loved them and I loved him. He didn’t ask me to spend any more time around them than necessary, and I didn’t try to keep them apart. I would never make him choose between us. Thankfully, they loved CJ as much as any grandparents could.

I put Tom's breakfast in the oven and left him a note on the entry table so he’d find it as soon as he got home. I always hated leaving the house without telling him I loved him, but sometimes a note had to suffice.

Listen, Phil, I understand what you’re saying, but that’s just not the way the numbers play out. I clasped my hands behind my back to stop from clenching them into fists. We’d been talking in circles for over an hour and I was sick to death of it. Phil Jenkins, the vice president of online sales, had made his case for reduced pricing on the company’s various websites. I had countered with reasons against it in several different ways, but he wasn’t absorbing my words through that thick skull of his. He was determined to carry out Excellere CEO Ossi Aaltonen’s dream, come hell or high water. Aaltonen was determined to reverse engineer the company into a pale imitation of Amazon, that much had been evident for years. He would fail. That had been evident just as long.

Let’s take this from the abstract and into specifics, okay?

He rolled his eyes but nodded. Some days tried my patience more than others. This one found it guilty of being on a very short leash. Aright. Let’s take the new signature refrigerator for example. What is the retail on it?

It retails for $4299.99, but—

I cut him off. I know. We never sell it for that. Doesn’t matter. I wrote the number on the whiteboard and again two feet to the right. Above the left number I wrote in store and above the right, I wrote online, for the benefit of the slower brains in the room. What’s cost on it?

Eighteen forty-nine thirty-seven, Joe Hoopes answered. I was never sure what his job title would be from one quarter to the next, but his actual job remained the same: to purchase refrigeration appliances from the vendors. I liked him. He’d jumped on my train of thought as soon as it left the station, but he didn’t have the right title, so the seven-figure earners in the room ignored him just like they did me.

Can someone do the math for me here? I asked as I wrote the numbers on the board.

Your difference is $2450.62, Joe supplied again.

I continued drawing pretty numbers on the board as I explained again that reducing online pricing versus in-store pricing only served to reduce revenue, which, in turn, reduced profit. Considering the reason for these meetings was the extreme loss of profit this quarter, one would think the opinions of the CPAs would carry more weight. One would think. One would be wrong. So after figuring all overhead in each sales stream, and without taking any discounts, the difference between revenue generated online versus in-store with the same exact selling price is six hundred dollars.

I thought I had seen light bulbs go off above some heads as I walked them through the process, but I was wrong. Blank faces stared back at me, waiting for me to put more color in the drawing or something. Joe? I asked, praying he could put it into words small enough these people would understand.

If we offer a lower price online than we do in the store, we reduce profits.

Yes! Thank you! Ladies and gentlemen, in a time when profit margins are slim, the easiest way to fatten them up again is to keep the online pricing the same as or higher than the in-store pricing, especially since we honor online pricing in-store when asked.

But if we sell more units online, we’ll get that back, Phil argued.

Joe shoved the paperwork in front of him off the table. I’m done. Good luck, Henry. I have another meeting in ten minutes. He rushed out the door with only one guilty glance back at me.

If I could have run out with him, I would have. Instead I turned to Phil. You haven’t been in retail long, have you, Phil?

He regarded me quizzically. I’ve been with Excellere for about eight months.

And before that?

Before that I was in the healthcare industry.

I nodded. I see. I had to get out of there before I did something in appropriate like take Phil’s temperature anally with the whiteboard marker. I clapped my hands. Excellent meeting everyone. Thank you for your time.

I didn’t get a break from the meetings and ass-chewings until almost two o’clock, and no one around me was the better for it. Once, when we’d first started dating, Tom had seen me overly hungry and dubbed that crabby version of me Mr. Crankypants. It wasn’t funny, but it was damn appropriate. So I was extremely happy to walk into my office and see an Apple-Manchego Panini and small Cobb salad waiting on my desk. I poked my head back into the reception area and gave my personal assistant, Trevor, a huge smile. You’re an angel.

He pointed in the direction of my office and scowled. Don’t talk to me until after you’ve eaten.

I laughed and sought out my desk, my mouth watering in anticipation. I took one apple- and cheese-seasoned bite and luxuriated in the incredible mix of flavors. I swallowed and greedily took another bite before checking my phone. No messages or missed calls from Tom. I shrugged away my disappointment. Perhaps his day had been as insane as mine. I dashed off a quick text saying I hoped he had a good day and reminding him I was stopping for Thai takeout on the way home. I signed off with the little heart emoticon and laughed at myself for my sentimentality after all our years together.

The coming Thursday was our twenty-first and sixth anniversaries. We’d married legally on July 17, 2008, during that brief but wonderful June to November window when California first allowed civil marriage to same-sex couples. I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, and allowed myself to remember the best day of my life.

Our wedding day dawned cool and overcast in Napa at six o’clock on the dot. I awoke snuggled against Tom, my head on his shoulder, an arm thrown across his chiseled chest, a leg draped across his thighs. He snuffled away in sleep, oblivious to the upwelling of emotion that instantly inundated me. I pressed a kiss to his skin and closed my eyes.

It was fifteen years to the exact date that Tom first said he loved me. We’d been together about three and a half months when he surprised me with an electric lantern-lit picnic on the beach. I’d already decided he was the love of my life; I was just waiting for him to catch up. I’d teased him about choosing a picnic date.

Thank you for bringing me here.

He pecked my lips and took the basket from my hands. Of course. Now make yourself comfortable and let’s see what’s in this thing.

I looked at him sideways. You didn’t pack it yourself?

He laughed. Do I look like the kind of guy who’d own a picnic basket like this? He gestured to the sturdy wicker thing like he’d never seen one before.

I grinned at him. Actually, yeah. You do.

Shut up. He opened the basket and started digging around inside, carefully avoiding my gaze. The pleased smile on his lips and the rosy glow staining his cheeks gave him away.

It’s yours, isn’t it?

Shut up.

He was so cute when he was embarrassed. How many other guys have you taken on picnics? Is this a regular routine for you?

I had meant it as a joke, so the storm on his face surprised me. I’ve never brought anyone else here, ever.

The sea breeze had ruffled his perfectly styled hair, so I figured it was okay to touch. I threaded my fingers through his curls and brought his forehead to mine. I was only teasing, Tommy. It’s okay. I’m not jealous.

He pulled back and studied my eyes. What if I want you to be?

The turnaround was sudden enough to throw me off. What?

What if I want you to be jealous? What if I said— He sighed and pulled me down onto the blankets with him. We settled Indian-style, our knees lightly touching. He took both of my hands in his, stroking them gently with his thumbs. I had this elaborate seduction scene set up in my head, but that isn’t really the way I want to do this. A line formed between his eyebrows as he contemplated his next words. You spilling coffee on me was the best thing that ever happened to me. He winked and I chuckled, still embarrassed at my clumsiness. Asking you out… He shook his head and grinned. Smartest thing I ever did, no question. It’s crazy to think how much my life has changed in the three months we’ve been dating. I don’t want it to stop, Henry. I only want it to change and grow and get better.

He tugged one hand away and scrubbed it down his face. I’m screwing this all up. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t want you to see anyone else. I don’t think you are; I think you made that decision on your own, but now I’m saying I want to be certain. I want us to be exclusive. He cupped my chin, his thumb tracing the slight cleft there. My breath caught at the intensity in his eyes. He started speaking again, his words coming faster, almost panicky. I love you, Henry. You don’t have to say it back, but I needed you to know. I want this to be just us and I want to see where the future can take us, together.

If my body had wings, I would have taken flight and danced across the pre-sunset sky. I laughed, relieved he wasn’t breaking up with me, excited and scared that he had said the words. I flung my arms around him with enough force we tumbled back onto the blanket. I breathed in his sweet scent, the linen of his suit coarse against my cheek. I love you too, I whispered into his neck.

Beneath me, Tom stretched exaggeratedly and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. I love you even more now, you know, he said in that sleep-hoarse voice I loved so much.

I turned my head to smile up at him. More now than when?

More than when I first told you. More than yesterday. More than a minute ago when I woke up to find you daydreaming with that goofy smile on your face.

My tear ducts threatened to spill over. How did you know what I was thinking about?

Because I know you, barista. You’re the most sentimental person I’ve ever met. It only makes sense that on the morning of our wedding you’d be thinking about that night. He leaned up and kissed me. I’ve been thinking about it for days. It was a great night, he whispered.

It was, I agreed. Who would have thought then that we’d end up here?

He rolled me onto my back and ducked his head to nibble on my neck. I laughed and tilted my head to give him better access. I knew it, he said between tiny bites. I was never letting you get away, even if it meant I’d run the risk of getting burned by coffee every single day for the rest of my life.

I laughed and pinched his bare ass under the satin sheet, earning a yelp in return. Keep talking. The deed isn’t done yet.

He grinned at me. Yes it is. It was done years ago. I have the ink to prove it.

I caressed the tattoo on his left inner biceps as his hand began to slide up my thigh. Now who’s the sentimental one?

In answer, he bit my shoulder, and then rolled away and off the bed.

I took in the sight of his naked and aroused body. I didn’t know or care if my love for him colored my perception, but Tom MacKinnon at thirty-seven was infinitely sexier than Tom MacKinnon at twenty-three—and that younger version had been able to get me from zero to sixty in thirty seconds flat. You’re not going to take advantage of me one last time before I’m an old married guy?

He yanked open the sheers shielding the French doors leading to our third floor balcony. From our room we had a terrific view of the vineyard, but I knew he wasn’t looking there. Far beyond the vast expanse of grape vines, our hill rose in the distance. It was our special place, our escape from the complexities of dealing with Tom’s parents. Once, right after college, I’d laughingly wrestled Tom to the ground to stop him from carving our initials into the ancient blue oak tree that stood apart from its brothers near the crest of the rise. We’d made love under the boundless azure sky and a secret adventure had been born. After that, we made a point to spend time at that hill each time we visited Lasthenia Valley Vineyard and Villa Dimitri. After we adopted CJ we sometimes took him along with us, meaning we had to play by PG rules, but we didn’t mind. We knew why we were there, and that was enough.

Tom threw open the doors and turned back to me as the cool, crisp air rushed by him. I felt his heated gaze slide along my naked body. As long as you’re sure your fiancé won’t find out about it.

I won’t tell him if you won’t.

In that case, prepare to be ravaged. I laughed as he took a running leap onto the bed.

Several hours later, as we stood together fifty feet from the top of the hill, I could still feel him in me. One last time had turned to twice. The first had been rough and fun, filled with laughter and dirty talk as we pretended to be clandestine lovers enjoying a final romp. The second time had been just for us, a slow, sensual love making without games, just savoring the emotion of the day. After fifteen years and one son, our relationship would finally be recognized as equal and valid. Even Matthew and Althea's silent disapproval couldn’t take that away from us. In 1993, the idea would have been ludicrous. Yet there we were, about to walk up the hill to our small group of witnesses and pledge ourselves to one another as legally married husbands.

Tom took my hand in his big, rough one, the prearranged signal that we were ready. Katie started to sing Westlife’s To Be Loved a cappella. Our friend Chloe, who had been with me that fateful day I’d met Tom, was acting as our officiant. She stood smiling under our blue oak tree with CJ, who looked dapper in his first tuxedo.

Shaun, my best friend since college, stood next to Jamie, who gazed lovingly upon his wife as she sang. My dad, Martin, tried to covertly swipe a tear from his cheek. Even Matthew and Althea wore genuine smiles. As we started up the hill, I squeezed Tom's hand and tried to hold back tears of joy. I shouldn’t have been emotional as I was. In theory, we weren’t undergoing any fundamental change. Our relationship would be the same as it always had been. We were only making it legal. But somehow, knowing we were seconds away from pledging to love and care for one another forever in front of our family and friends—something I hadn’t even realized I was missing until marriage equality started marching through the states—made my heart almost burst with love.

We stopped before CJ and Chloe. We both gave her a kiss on the cheek and then held out a hand to our son. He looked at us curiously, but turned to join us and took our hands. I didn’t know how we looked to our guests, but standing in a small U in front of Chloe, joined at the hands to the two men I would love forever, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Chloe had encouraged us to write our own vows, but I wasn’t even sure I could get through the two I do’s, much less be able to speak coherently. In the end, we’d decided to go with the traditional promises, tweaked to allow for two husbands, and added a third one. By the time Tom slid the ring across my knuckle, I was a complete wreck. I’d never been so happy, so filled with his love, or as confident in our future as I was at that moment. When it was my turn to slide his ring on, my hands trembled so much he used both of his to steady them, giving me a moment to pull myself together.

And now for my favorite part, Chloe said. Tom and I grinned at each other’s tear-stained faces and looked down at our son. It sent a pang through my heart to realize we wouldn’t have to look down at him much longer. At thirteen, the top of his head already reached our shoulders. Christian James, Chloe intoned, do you consent to this marriage between Henry and Tom?

CJ nodded quickly.

And do you take these two men to be your fathers? To love, honor, and obey them for as long as you all should live?

I could see the confusion on his face, then the quirk of his mouth as he fought against denying he’d ever obey us, but mostly I saw how much he had grown from that scared, discarded nine-year-old boy we’d first met four years earlier. I was so proud of him. I’d never imagined or believed how much I could love a child before he came along, but my love for him was limitless and unconditional. He looked at each of us before, with a trembling lower lip, he finally answered, I do.

Thomas Matthew and Henry Jasper, do you both promise to be the best fathers you can be to Christian James? To love him and honor him, to teach him and learn from him, and to seek to understand him for all the days of your lives?

Tom's Always, and my I do, crashed over each other as we raced to hug and kiss our son. I heard someone laugh in the peanut gallery just as someone blew his nose.

Chloe waited until we had resumed our positions, then straightened her back and said proudly, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present for the first time as a legally married couple, Mr. Thomas MacKinnon and Mr. Henry Cooley, with their son Mr. Christian James Cooley-MacKinnon."

Wait, Tom objected. Don’t I get to kiss my husband?

Chloe smirked. Like you haven’t done that enough in the last fifteen years? She gestured at me. Okay, fine. Have that first legal kiss. Just remember there are children and old people present.

So extra tongue then? Tom asked, already reaching for the back of my head.

Of course! Chloe agreed with a laugh.

When I looked into Tom's eyes as he leaned in to kiss me, all the teasing was gone, replaced with such a look of unending love, I was sure I would drown in it happily for the rest of my life. And when he kissed me, it was as sweet and tender and full of promise as that one on the beach after he’d first said he loved me.

The house was dark and quiet when I got home. I set the bag of takeout on the mail table by the door and shed my suit jacket with relief. The fewer things I had to remind me of another Miserable Monday at work the better. I made a quick dash to the bedroom to change out of the suit. Instead of shredding it into a million pieces like I desperately wanted to, I hung it in the closet like a good boy. I tossed my dress shirt, undershirt, and socks haphazardly into the hamper. I put on my favorite pair of soft, well-worn jeans and a ratty old t-shirt that I was surprised Tom hadn’t thrown out yet. As the family laundry guru, he was also the final arbiter of what was still worth the effort to launder and what was to be sacrificed to the clothing gods. Some items were lucky enough to be reincarnated as cleaning rags, others just disappeared forever. I knew this t-shirt’s days were numbered, so I was determined to enjoy it as often as I could before its day of reckoning.

Much more comfortable in my sloppy clothes, I returned to the living room to retrieve the takeout. As I lifted it from the table, my peripheral vision caught a sheet of paper floating to the floor. I picked it up. It was my note to Tom from this morning. I frowned at it as I turned it over and inspected the blank back side. I was surprised to see Tom hadn’t left a message in return.

I checked the time on my watch. 6:33 p.m. I was slightly